The Pirate's Debt (The Regent's Revenge Book 2) (2 page)

With every reason he imagined Blackmoor had come here now denied, Markwick struggled to understand why the duke was sitting before him. “Then why are you here?”

Blackmoor cleared his throat. “The duchess received distressing news.”

Markwick blinked. The words
duchess
and
distressing
in the same sentence got his attention. “I’m—”

“Not finished.” The duke tossed his gloves next to his hat. “You know little about females, so let me enlighten you.”

That was an understatement. Why else was
he
captaining the
Fury
while Blackmoor had reacquired his unentailed land, his title, his place in society, and his wife?

Markwick grimaced. It wouldn’t do to let his mind wander there. At least not in Blackmoor’s presence. “I do not proclaim to know—”

“She’s chased after you, Markwick.”

She?
He shook his head to clear it. Now he was entirely confused. Blackmoor just told him his visit wasn’t about Prudence.

“Who has chased after me?”

Blackmoor’s stare narrowed on him, and a dread uniquely chilling, one Markwick had never experienced before, seized him. “Lady Chloe Walsingham.”

“Lady Chloe?” Markwick shifted in his seat. “Chloe?” he repeated, bursting into laughter. “Why ever would she be chasing after
me
?”

Blackmoor frowned. He’d obviously taken no delight in Markwick’s loss of control. “The duchess informs me that the lady has romantic notions about the two of you.”

Markwick instantly sobered. That was impossible, wasn’t it? He’d never once given Chloe reason to believe he felt such affections for her. Her brother wouldn’t approve. “Romantic notions?”

“Aye.” Now that Blackmoor had Markwick’s attention, he lifted a brow and quirked a grin. “She thinks herself in love with you, though I cannot imagine why.” The duke gave Markwick a thorough once-over, challenging him to argue.

Why would he?

“And so she’s run off.” Blackmoor rose and strode to the liquor cabinet housed in encased glass within the bulkhead.

Markwick blinked, certain he hadn’t heard correctly. “Run off? Where?”

“My sources say she’s boarded the
Mohegan
bound for Penzance.” He lifted the wooden-framed pane and reached in for a bottle. “May I?”

Markwick nodded. “Of course. As you said, the
Fury
is—and always will be—
your
ship, Your Grace.”

The duke’s hand paused midair before retrieving a bottle of brandy and two glasses. “I realize it’s only two o’clock, but something tells me we will both need a drink.”

Markwick licked his lips and nodded woodenly, perplexed by the numbness spreading through his limbs as he remembered the adorable dimple in Chloe’s left cheek, her unusual violet eyes that had a way of branding him—so trusting, innocent, capable of stripping him bare—her sparkling red hair, and idealistic sighs.

Bloody hell! Curse the fates for throwing unattainable women my way.

“No doubt, the fascination she and my wife have with gothic romances has filled her mind with nonsense,” Blackmoor continued, providing blessed relief. He stepped away from the bulkhead carrying two tumblers filled with amber liquid and set the welcome libation before Markwick. “Chloe lives in a fantasy world, and until she is found,
we
are responsible for her safety.”

“
We?
Don’t you mean Walsingham? It bears noting that her brother should be afforded this honor.”

“No.”

“No?” Markwick scratched his head, perplexed. Why should they be responsible for a woman who wasn’t related to them by birth? “Walsingham is a pirate hunter, a revenue man. I’m an earl pretending to be a pirate.”

“Need I remind you that you
are
a pirate, and a marquess, now?”

“On paper only. I refuse my father’s mantle.”

“Nevertheless, it is yours to shoulder, and the lady in question has a way of getting into trouble,” Blackmoor said.

The duke’s words lanced through him. He’d always feared Chloe’s penchant for melodrama would bring her misfortune. Still, he wasn’t her brother, her betrothed, or her husband. He’d lost his fiancée to her resurrected husband and his good name to his own father. His blood ran cold as the voice in his head spoke up.

Do you want to see Chloe fall to ruin, too?

It was no use. Thoughts of Chloe’s safety pricked his chest like a germinating, barbed seed. What if something horrific happened to her?

“How exactly did I get dragged into this?”

Blackmoor’s laughter stripped away any of the sarcasm Markwick sought to plead his case. “You, my dear boy, are the only one who can talk sense into the girl.”

“Me?” He pointed to his chest, barely recognizing his own high-pitched voice.

“Come now, Markwick. Do not deny she’s doted on you since she came of age.”

“But when Prudence, I mean, when your wife and I planned to marry . . .” Blackmoor’s expression turned dangerous. “I thought Chloe understood nothing would ever come from her infatuations. Bloody hell, I have her brother to consider.”

Blackmoor scowled and pondered the rim of his glass. “Walsingham is many things, but he is not a fool.” After several agonizing moments, the duke tore his gaze away, then fondly glanced around the cabin as if deep in thought. “He’s already plying the coast for her whereabouts. But he’s getting desperate, and desperate men do dangerous things.”

Markwick blanched. Blackmoor was right. Walsingham would scour every town and every ship under heaven to find Chloe, and possibly be killed doing it. He shifted uncomfortably. “Walsingham hunts people down for a living. I’m confident he will find her.” God help anyone in the captain’s way.

“A revenue man he may be, but he’s not hunting a pirate now, is he?” Blackmoor was right, damn it. “Has Walsingham ever been able to control his sister?”

Aside from locking Chloe away in their stately home the way Walsingham had always done? No.

The girl was an excellent horsewoman with a curiosity to rival any cat. Walsingham had taught her how to survive just about anything because of it.

Markwick jumped to his feet. “Tell me you are not thinking what I think you are thinking.”

“Then I won’t.” Blackmoor’s stare pinioned Markwick. “I will make things easy for you. I order you to locate the
Mohegan
.”

“Why would she go to Penzance?”

Blackmoor’s heavy sigh irritated Markwick. “Haven’t you been listening? She’s going to Penzance in search of you.”

“But I’m not
in
Penzance.”

“Quit herding details. Someone told her you booked passage there.”

“Who?” A chill swept over Markwick.
Devil doubt it, this is my fault.
I ordered my men to drop subtle hints as to my whereabouts wherever they docked and whenever my name was mentioned.

As if sensing reality dawning in Markwick’s mind, Blackmoor cocked a wicked grin. He donned his cloak, put on his gloves, and reached for his hat. “I see the fog has cleared.”

“Bloody hell!” Guilt-ridden, Markwick fisted his hands, then slammed an open palm down on his desk.

“Focus on this,” Blackmoor told him. “A young woman with a thirst for adventure is now vulnerable to caprice and avarice because she picked up the trail you left behind. Before anything grave happens to her, you can board the
Mohegan
, take her hostage, and return her to her family . . . without exposing your identity, thereby retaining your good standing with Walsingham.”

“But . . .” To what end? Chloe idolized the Black Regent. In either case, he was doomed. He couldn’t afford another scandal, or worse, an impressionable young lady’s death on his hands. “I’ve never encouraged Chloe, Blackmoor. You have my word.”

Blackmoor stepped around the desk and put his hand on Markwick’s shoulder. “I believe you. But even when all appears lost,” the duke said, momentary agony pooling in his blue eyes, “true love never dies.”

“Love?”

The duke nodded sullenly. “In its purest form.”

“But Chloe cannot possibly love a man like me, not after—”

“Women are ruled by fickle hearts. Never forget it, Markwick.”

He thought of Prudence. How easily she’d forgiven Blackmoor after he’d made her believe he was dead for two long years. Her forgiveness, after all Blackmoor had put her through, was the purest form of love he’d ever witnessed.

Markwick’s throat constricted. Lady Chloe was Prudence’s dearest childhood friend. And because of Prudence’s condition, he’d do whatever it took to ease the duchess’s concerns, even if that meant subjecting himself to a temptation he’d side-stepped for years—Lady Chloe Walsingham.

“What would you have me do?”

Blackmoor reached into his jacket and produced some sort of correspondence. “The duchess has been receiving letters from Chloe ever since she departed Exeter. Here is all the proof you need, Markwick.”

The duke held the vellum just out of reach. “I urge you to heed my advice. Put an end to this nonsense immediately before Chloe ruins her reputation or gets herself killed.”

Markwick’s heart skipped a beat. What would the world be like without Chloe’s genuine smile, her incredible laughter, her bookish wonder?

“I cannot bear to think what the dreadful loss of her dear friend would do to my wife.”

Markwick stiffened. Blackmoor’s reasons for enlisting Markwick’s help were triggered by love for his wife. Markwick’s sense of responsibility went deeper, to a place he’d never allowed himself to go out of respect for Walsingham. While it was true that Chloe had exceeded many levels of Markwick’s patience when she was younger, since his engagement to Prudence, she’d shown herself to be intelligent, talented, loyal, and a most beloved sister and friend. She was also enamored by the Black Regent, which put his identity at even greater risk.

What could he do? How far was he willing to go to bring Chloe home safe and sound?

“For the duchess’s sake,” he began, “I will do my best to find Chloe. You have my word.”

“Remember, her willful head is in the clouds. That, dear friend, makes her dangerous. If she spies her brother, she will most likely flee to avoid facing his ire. But if you find her . . . well, that is a trap well laid.”

“Surely you place too much—”

“I’ve promised my wife that you will find her before Walsingham does.”

Markwick bowed. “I shall strive to earn your confidence.”

He gazed at the missive in Blackmoor’s hand once more, suspecting something else was responsible for the duke’s persistence that Markwick should be the one to locate Chloe. “What’s in the letter?”

Blackmoor handed him the missive, then strode to the door. “Have a care for your soul, Markwick. While the
Fury
demands forte, females rein a tempest of emotions sure to drown better men.”

Markwick straightened. “Aye, sir,” he said, gazing down at the note.

The screen door slammed. When he looked up again, Blackmoor was gone.

Markwick opened the note, then leaned back on the desk. His jaw slackened at the words on the page.

My dearest friend,

I ask you one question: is a body unhappy about another unless she is in love? I fear we both know the answer to that now, and a gentle violence thrills my soul as I share with you that I intend to sail with the tide. I cannot face the snares and wiles of this world without love to recommend me. Therefore, I beseech you to keep my secret, for you are the only one I trust.

Markwick has disappeared. As you are no longer betrothed, I am finally at liberty to confess to you that I love him. I have always loved him, and I cannot bear for him to suffer alone. Sources close to my brother inform me that a man fitting Markwick’s description has been seen in Torquay. Therefore, I’ve attained passage for myself and my maid aboard the
Valerian
.

Do not be alarmed for my person or harden your heart against me. Dry your earnest tears. My virtuous intentions steer me toward a higher destiny.

Resourcefully yours,

Chloe Walsingham

Markwick shut his gaping mouth, then crumpled the letter in his hand.

It couldn’t be true. Blackmoor was right? Chloe loved him? How was that possible? Why? Until now, he had always perceived her attention as infatuation because he’d been the only man her brother allowed around her.

He dropped the foolscap and swiped his fingers through his hair. If he failed to rescue Chloe from another one of her outlandish adventures, Prudence would blame him. Which meant Blackmoor would blame him. Not to mention Chloe’s brother. If Walsingham found out Markwick had known where Chloe was bound and hadn’t alerted him, the bond between friends would be severed for good, making his stint as the Black Regent even more perilous. If anything happened to her, Walsingham would not rest until Markwick was hunted down. That endangered the Regent’s whole design. And a dead Regent could not help the people of Cornwall and Devon.